Empty Spaces
by Lothiriel84
Summary: Thirty-five years, but he was still to give up hope. No matter that with each passing day another piece of his heart withered and died.


Thirty-five years. Or, to be more precise, thirty-five years, four months, and three weeks.

That was the length of time that had elapsed since he'd last seen his son – his beautiful, tiny, precious baby boy. He could still remember the weight of his child as he held him in his arms; his little body rested snugly against his chest, his minute fingers curling around his thumb.

Thirty-five years, but he was still to give up hope. No matter that with each passing day another piece of his heart withered and died.

.

There were good days, and there were bad days. Then there were days when he wanted to do nothing but drown his soul in a bottle of cheap whisky.

That was how his first two marriages had ended, and also the main reason for his daughters to know better than to rely on him; he may have been sober for nearly ten years now, but that didn't mean the dreadful void inside of him had in any way healed. Life had gifted him with two beautiful girls, that was true; but nothing in the world could erase the pain over the loss of his firstborn, his grief only made ten thousand times worse by the fact that he didn't _know_.

He wasn't even allowed to mourn his son properly, and he absolutely hated it.

.

Postpartum depression, that was what they had written on the police report. Which actually explained nothing at all; the hard cold truth was that Moira was dead, the baby was nowhere to be found, and for all that he wished he could hate her deep down he knew he was the one to blame.

He was a medical student, he was supposed to know the signs. But he'd been so tired, with the baby and the upcoming finals and the endless arguments with Moira; he'd just turned a blind eye to the situation for as long as he'd been able to, and by then it had been too late.

All he could do was hope against hope that his son was still alive, somewhere.

.

James had a birthmark on his left shoulder, roughly the size of a twenty pence coin. There had been a time when he used to believe it might increase their chances of finding him, but apparently that was nothing more than wishful thinking.

Even when the police stopped searching, he secretly kept hoping and waiting. The fact that he eventually moved on with his life was no indication that he'd given up on being reunited with his little boy, someday.

.

Douglas didn't get to see much of his daughters these days. Somewhere along the way MJN Air had become his surrogate family, ragtag army of mavericks and misfits though they were. Martin and Arthur always looked up to him as some sort of _deus ex machina_ , and even Carolyn had had to grumpily concede that she relied on him for their tinpot one-aeroplane outfit to stay afloat on a daily basis.

That was the only thing that kept him going, especially on bad days.

.

Thirty-five years, eigth months, one week. He'd told himself time and time again that he should stop counting, but he was still a father bereft of his child, and nothing would ever change this simple fact. There were times when he almost wished he could tell someone, anyone; wished he could share the burden that had been crushing him over the past few decades, but in the end he simply couldn't bring himself to.

He didn't need other people's sympathy. Didn't deserve it. He'd lost his son, and it was nobody's fault but his own; he was the one who had to live with his guilt and his sorrow, day after day after day.

.

Martin's bad luck was legendary, but even so dislocating his shoulder in Istanbul thirty minutes before their flight had to score pretty high on the list of his misfortunes. Arthur had very nearly convinced his mother that they had to take him to hospital, but the Captain himself stubbornly refused to see reason.

"I want to go home. Please."

In the end there was nothing for it but to dig out his long forgotten notions from medical school. However, theoretical knowledge was one thing, but experimenting it on a living patient – and a colleague at that – was another matter entirely, as one might easily imagine.

"I don't want to hurt you," he announced somewhat hesitantly; then he considered the unspoken plea in his friend's eyes, and just swallowed his nerves.

.

Naturally he was the one to drive Martin to Fitton hospital, and sit in the waiting room as the doctors quibbled over an X-ray. In the end they merely set Martin's arm in a sling, glared at Douglas for attempting reduction without being a trained paramedic, told them they were very lucky that hadn't caused further injury, then eventually sent them away.

They wouldn't even listen when Martin asked how soon he could go back to work.

.

"I am fit to fly," Martin claimed somewhat unconvincingly. "You know me, I wouldn't compromise safety for – anything. At all."

"Maybe," he conceded. "But I'm not entirely sure I should trust your judgment on this particular matter."

Martin huffed, then proceeded to shrug off his shirt. "Look for yourself. Fully healed, you see?"

What he did see was the light brown spot on his Captain's left shoulder, and if he had any doubts that the universe actually hated him he wouldn't need to look any further.

"Fair enough," he said, with a voice that he could barely recognise as his own.

.

Things would be so much easier if only Martin wasn't precisely the same age James would have been, had he been alive. What a cruel coincidence that was, that his friend and captain had to constantly remind him of the child he'd lost so many years before.

Douglas kept telling himself that Martin could in no way be his son. Martin's birthdate was different from James's, and his family lived in Wokingham; it was just an odd quirk of fate, another way for the universe to laugh at his expenses.

Never had a bottle of Talisker looked quite so tempting on Birling Day.

.

"What were you thinking, Douglas?"

Martin was livid, and rightly so if he had to be completely honest. He'd promised himself he would only take a sip of the blasted thing, but as a recovered alcoholic he should have known better than to trust his self-control around the bottle.

He should have known better on so many counts throughout his life, he wasn't even sure why he bothered anymore.

"You can tell me. We're friends, remember?"

The anger to Martin's tone had somewhat abated, worry apparent on the lines of his face. Douglas looked at him, and finally decided he might as well unburden himself to his captain.

.

In the end, it was Mrs Crieff that untangled everything for him. How her husband had found the child in the back of his van, and how they had decided to welcome him into their family.

And if Martin didn't quite return his hug, that was only because of the pain in his shoulder.


End file.
